


Similitude Sequence Part 2: Something To Ease The Loneliness

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, Other Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: What if the symbiote's memory goes both ways? Spoilers, 3.10 "Similitude." Includes Reed/m. (04/21/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: I owe a very, very big thanks here to Setcheti, for writing her terrific "No More, No Less" series. The idea that Trip might retain any of Sim's memories comes from her, and was directly responsible for this story. The quoted lyrics are as follows: 1. "The Weakness in Me" by Joan Armatrading. 2. "Losing Grip" by Avril Lavigne. 3. "Boots or Hearts" by The Tragically Hip. 4. "Torch" by The Sisters of Mercy. 5. "Mad About You" by Sting.  
  
Beta: Sarah. Thank you, thank you, thank you.  


* * *

### 1\. Why Do You Come Here, When You Know I've Got Troubles Enough?

The sound of his door chime wakes him out of a dream—something dark and unpleasant. He can't remember it, but he still lies a moment in the artificial night of his cabin, breathing fast and trying to make sense of the room around him.

The chime rings again, then a third time, and Malcolm blinks himself back into the reality of _Enterprise_ —his tiny little cabin, the uncomfortable bunk and the sound of someone at his door. He sits up immediately, slapping on the lights, then wincing from the brightness as he gets off the bed and crosses the room.

"I'm coming." He has to swallow before he speaks, run his tongue over his teeth and the inside of his dry mouth. He rubs his hand over his face before he opens the door.

Commander Tucker is standing outside his quarters. The sight of him is like a lightning bolt in Malcolm's heart. He wants to touch him, to make sure he's real, but he keeps his arms rigid at his sides, keeps himself rigidly under control.

A second later that stab of longing is gone, replaced by concern, maybe even fear. Trip is wearing a pair of drawstring pants and a t- shirt, his sleep clothes. Incongruous for him, even at this time of night. And his eyes are wild, overly bright, darting from place to place as if he's desperately searching for something.

"What's wrong?" Malcolm asks him. "Trip, what is it?" He tries to touch him—impersonally, just on the arm or shoulder like he might with anyone—but Trip jerks back.

"Don't," Trip says, but he pauses, blinks, as if he's only just realized Malcolm's there in front of him. "I can't remember where my quarters are," he says. His voice sounds harsh and strange. Panicked. Too young.

"Your quarters are on B deck," Malcolm says automatically. He licks his lips, feeling the uncomfortable hammering in his chest now as the fear comes on in earnest. "Trip," he says, "are you all right?"

Trip starts at his name. Then he shakes his head almost frantically. "No," he says. "No, not B deck, that's not right. I know that's not right. I don't belong there. Those aren't mine. He said—" He breaks off, panting, and he puts his hands to his temples, tightly closing his eyes. "It's all wrong," he whispers. Then his eyes snap open, and there's terror in them. "Did I die?"

"No!" Malcolm says. "No. You're all right, Trip. You're fine." He knows that's not true, but he says it anyway, because he has to say something. He takes Trip's wrists, and Trip lets him. He gently pulls Trip's hands away from his head. They're shaking and his skin is cold. "Look at me," Malcolm says, because Trip's eyes are still moving frantically, refusing to stop, to focus. "Trip—look at me!"

Trip does, finally, blinking. His face is running with sweat, his breath fast and terribly loud in the silent corridor.

"You didn't die," Malcolm says, as clearly and distinctly as possible. "You were in sick bay, recovering from an accident. But you survived."

Trip's eyes are on him, but Malcolm can tell he's not listening. He looks down at his wrists, each held gently in Malcolm's hands, then up at the lieutenant's face.

"I love you," he says, but his voice is uncertain. His head cocks a little to the side, confused and considering. "Don't I?"

Malcolm's breath hitches, and he has to swallow before he can speak. "You did," he says. He isn't certain that's true anymore, though, that Trip ever really did love him, but there's no time for that now. Instead, Malcolm tugs gently on Trip's arms, taking a step back. "Come inside, Trip," he says. "Please. Let me help you."

Trip doesn't move. His eyes are as blue and distant as Earth. "T'Pol kissed me," he says, and he smiles.

And for a second, just a second, Trip is gone. It's still his face, still his smile, but it's like Malcolm isn't looking at the same man at all.

Malcolm freezes. It takes all his control not to drop the wrists he's holding and step back. "Sim?" He asks. He can barely make himself say it.

Trip blinks again, rapidly, as if pulling himself back from a distance. "Sim?" He repeats. Then his eyes go liquid, face crumpling in confusion and fear. "Is that who I am?"

"No!" Malcolm says, shaking his head. "Your name is Charles Cyrus Tucker the Third. You're not Sim. Sim is dead."

Trip's eyes are huge and glistening. "He died?"

"Please," Malcolm says, and he can barely speak. It feels like his heart is breaking. He steps back further, trying to will Trip to come with him, "please come inside, Trip."

Trip looks down at his wrists, still held in Malcolm's hands. "Okay," he says softly, and finally Malcolm can pull him completely into his quarters. The door slides shut behind them.

### 2\. Can You Recognize My Face?

"Tell me who I am," Trip says. "Please. I can't remember my name."

Malcolm and Trip are on Malcolm's couch in his quarters. Trip is in Malcolm's arms, tight against him, his forehead pressed into the curve between Malcolm's neck and shoulder. He won't stop shaking.

Trip holds on to Malcolm like Malcolm's body is the last anchor he has in the universe. It's been like this for hours: Malcolm tells Trip who he is, and Trip listens and holds onto Malcolm and then a minute later he asks him who he is again.

"Your name is Charles Cyrus Tucker the Third," Malcolm says. He's tired and his throat hurts, and he's never been so afraid. Trip's back is wet under Malcolm's hand; his t-shirt is damp and cool from the sweat soaked through it. Malcolm threads his fingers through the wet hair on the back of Trip's head. The fear pulses off Trip like heat, like his sweat, soaks into everything. "We call you Trip," he adds, because Trip's having problems with that, too, with his nickname.

"Everyone calls me Sim," Trip says.

"You're not Sim," Malcolm tells him, again. "You're Trip."

"Everything's messed up," Trip says. "It's all messed up in my head." Suddenly he pulls back, glaring at Malcolm accusingly. "Why didn't you trust me?"

"What do you mean, Trip?" Malcolm asks him. He uses his name on purpose—hoping it will stay in his head, keep reminding him. Malcolm glances at the comm panel above his bed. He's tried several times to call Phlox, or bring Trip to sick bay, but Trip won't let him. Eventually, he knows, they'll both be late for their shifts and someone will come looking for them. But they're not due at their posts for several more hours.

"With the overburn," Trip says, like it should be obvious. His eyes are haunted and hurt and angry. "I told you to increase the overburn ratio by another thirty percent. But you asked the Captain before you did it. Why didn't you trust me?"

"I do trust you, Trip," Malcolm says. He reaches out, cupping Trip's face in his hands. "I trust you with my life." He still means it, even after all that's happened. "You asked the Captain."

"That wasn't you, Trip," Malcolm says. God, he just wants this to be over. "That was Sim, with the overburn. That wasn't you."

"That was Sim," Trip repeats. He closes his eyes as if he's in pain. "But I remember—"

"Trip." Malcolm smoothes the damp hair back from Trip's forehead. He notices his own hand is shaking, like an echo of the trembling that's taken over Trip's whole body. "Those aren't your memories. Please let me take you to sick bay. Phlox can help you."

"No!" Trip rears away, moving back to the end of the couch. He shakes his head violently, like a child. "Not sick bay." He slides farther back, pressing himself against the couch arm. His eyes skim from place to place in the room as if he's about to bolt, looking for the best place to run. He wipes the sweat from above his lip. "I can't go there," he says. "He'll kill me."

His reaction has been like this, every single time.

"Phlox won't hurt you, Trip," Malcolm says, again. "No one is going to hurt you."

"No," Trip insists. "No, you're wrong. Phlox killed me. He gave me poison and I died." Trip looks down at his body, his hands, then back up at Malcolm. "I remember dying, Malcolm," he says. His voice is awed and horrified. "How can I remember that? Why am I still alive?"

"You didn't die, Trip," Malcolm says. "You were injured, but you didn't die."

"But I remember!" Trip begins to hyperventilate, panic in his voice. "What's happening to me? Malcolm—help me! What's happening?"

"It's okay, it's okay," Malcolm says quickly, going to him. Trip grabs him like Malcolm's body is the last anchor he has in the universe. "It's okay. I'm here. I'll help you." But he can't, of course, and he's not helping. He can't do anything except hold him. So he holds on. He just holds on.

"I can't remember my name," Trip says.

And it starts all over again.

### 3\. But Even Babies Raised By Wolves, They Know Exactly When They've Been Used

It comes, finally, twenty minutes after Malcolm should have been on the bridge: the sound from the communication panel that means someone's trying to contact him.

Trip's reaction is instantaneous. He looks up sharply, terrified. His hand on Malcolm's shoulder grips so tightly it hurts. "Not again," he says breathlessly. "No. Not again."

"It's all right," Malcolm says. He rubs Trip's back. The man's muscles are like stone. "No one's going to hurt you."

"No," Trip says again. He sounds fragile and lost.

"Lieutenant Reed." It's Hoshi's voice. "Are you there?"

_Just send someone already_ , Malcolm thinks. He doesn't try to move, though his nerves feel electric with the need to get up and answer the comm. Ignoring a summons goes against everything he's ever learned. It practically feels like self-betrayal not to answer it, to let Hoshi keep calling and do nothing.

"Are you there?" Hoshi asks again. Malcolm can hear the tiny thread of worry in her voice; he wonders if she's contacted Trip yet, then decides that the captain would surely have commed Trip first. He wonders if Archer assumed they'd be together—as far as Malcolm knows, Sergeant Kemper is the only one who's aware that he and Trip have broken up.

"Lieutenant Reed," Hoshi tries one more time. Then, as if it would make a difference: "Malcolm?" There's another moment while she waits, then Malcolm can hear the comm click off, at last, and he lets out a tiny sigh of relief. It's only a matter of moments, now, before Archer sends someone to find him.

"They're coming here, aren't they?" Trip asks. "Oh, God..." He scrambles away, standing and running his fingers through his hair in his agitation. His eyes fix on Malcolm, full of pleading and fear. "Help me get away from them, Malcolm," he says, voice desperate. "Don't let them kill me."

"No one's going to hurt you, Trip," Malcolm says. He can't remember how many times he's said it. He stands carefully, making sure to keep his hands low, unthreatening. "I promise that it's going to be all right, but you have to go to sick bay. You have to let Phlox help you."

"No!" Trip forces the word through gritted teeth. His hands are in fists now. "Not again! I'm not gonna die for him again!"

"You're not going to die, Trip. Trip!" But Trip has already whirled towards the door, running.

Malcolm clenches his jaw and leaps for him, knocking Trip to the floor. Trip cries out, bucking and struggling, but Malcolm pins him easily.

"Let me go! You bastard let me go!" Malcolm has his hands wrapped tight around Trip's wrists, forcing his arms to bend backwards, high up on his back. He can feel Trip's pulse thudding hard against his palms, fast and wild. Trip is screaming, fighting so hard Malcolm is worried he'll dislocate the commander's shoulders, snap a bone in his arms.

He's reminded, strangely, horribly, of T'Pol, when she was overcome by the trellium-D on the _Seleya_ , poisoned. Maybe Trip has been poisoned too, by the neural tissue taken from the symbiote. Destroyed by the one thing that was supposed to save him.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm says quietly. "I'm so sorry, Trip. But this is for your own good. You need to let Phlox help you."

Trip makes a sound almost like a snarl. He glares up at Malcolm with his one visible eye. It's bloodshot with stress and fatigue, the iris shockingly blue against so much red. His lips are drawn back in a rictus of fear and rage.

"I thought you loved me," Trip says. And the betrayal in his voice is almost Malcolm's undoing, almost enough to make him drop Trip's arms and let him go.

"I do love you," Malcolm says simply. He clenches his eyes shut for a moment, though he doesn't loosen his hold on the commander's wrists. "You need help, Trip. I'm not trying to hurt you."

But Trip won't stop struggling, won't stop glaring at Malcolm with his burning blue eye, until the doctor comes into Malcolm's quarters, with Ensign Cormack and Corporal Woods following him. And when he sees Phlox, Trip fights so hard that one of the bones in his right forearm does break—Malcolm can feel the sudden, awful give before Cormack and Woods can help him hold the commander down.

Phlox, moving with surprising speed, kneels and presses a hypospray to Trip's neck. Trip flinches at the touch, then resists the sedative with all the strength he has left in him.

"You're not dying, Trip," Malcolm says. But he knows Trip doesn't believe him.

Malcolm waits until the commander's eyelids stop fluttering before he uncurls his fingers from Trip's wrists and moves away from him. His hands hurt, and his arms are weak and shaking.

"He thinks he's Sim," Malcolm says before Phlox can ask. "He thought you were here to kill him." His voice is dull with exhaustion, painfully dry from talking all night. He wipes his mouth with the side of his trembling hand. "He was fighting me...I'm fairly certain I broke his arm."

Then he just sits on the floor, breathing out his exertion, and waits while they carry Trip out of the room. Maybe Phlox says something to him, but he doesn't bother to listen.

He knows he should go with them, as a fellow officer, as a friend. But he can't make himself move. All he can think of is Trip, how the commander thinks he's betrayed him. That he thinks Malcolm wants him to die.

_In a minute_ , he thinks. _I'll get up in a minute_. He has to get up anyway, since he has his shift to get to. But it's like he's been pinned in place, held down by a weight far greater than any kind of exhaustion.

_In a minute_. But still, he doesn't move for a long time.

### 4\. How Can It Help You When You Don't Know What You Need?

It's hours later, now. Malcolm has put in his shift and come to see commander Tucker in sick bay. Trip is on one of the recovery beds, soft and peaceful in sleep, like nothing had ever happened. There's a thin cast over his right arm.

The captain is there, standing silently as he stares down at Trip's face. He looks like granite; his hands are in tight fists at his sides. He barely glances up when Malcolm comes near the bed.

"Phlox says he's going to be okay," Jon says without preamble. "He'll know who he is when he wakes up—the symbiote's memories will be gone."

"Thank god," Malcolm breathes. The relief he feels is almost like pain, and he has to fight to keep his voice level.

"Yeah," Jon says softly. He lifts a hand and smoothes back Trip's hair. The commander sighs in his sleep. "This is my fault," he says quietly.

"You did what you had to do to save him, sir," Malcolm says. He wants to move closer, but somehow Jon's presence there forbids it, keeps him back.

Jon looks up at him, briefly, before settling his gaze on Trip again. "I don't need your platitudes, Malcolm," he says.

"It wasn't a platitude, sir," Malcolm says.

Jon doesn't look up again, but there is such a sudden sense of danger to the man that Malcolm almost steps back, needing to get away from him. It reminds him of the time he found Jon suffocating the Osaarian in an airlock: the same feeling of a barely-leashed darkness, that would allow someone to torture, to kill.

"I murdered him, you know," Jon says quietly. His eyes are still following the gentle movement of his hand. "I forced him to give up his life for Trip."

"The decision was his alone," Malcolm says. But he's thinking of Trip, in his quarters, fighting so hard to live that Malcolm broke his arm. _What did you do to him?_ he thinks, but he doesn't say it.

"I would have killed him, Malcolm," Jon says. "I would have forced him onto a biobed at gunpoint, just like he accused me of. I would have sedated him myself, stunned him. Whatever it took." His hand stills, resting on Trip's forehead. Jon's eyes are fixed on the commander's face. "Whatever means necessary."

"It was for the ship, sir," Malcolm says, but he's not sure whom he's trying to convince anymore. "You had no other choice."

"Didn't I?" Jon's lip twitches contemptuously, though his voice is mild. He pulls his hand away from Trip, drops it to his side as he looks at Malcolm. "Would you?"

Malcolm knows exactly what Jon is asking him. "No, sir," he says. He swallows, watching Trip breathe. "It's not what Trip would have wanted." And that feels like a betrayal, too—because he's so very glad Trip is alive.

Jon almost smiles. He nods, and his green eyes are fathomless and heartbreakingly sad. His voice is very quiet. "You're a better man than I am, Malcolm."

"I doubt that very much, sir," Malcolm says. His throat is suddenly tight.

Jon doesn't answer him. Instead, he brushes his fingertips against Trip's forehead one more time, and Jon's face is suffused with such awful tenderness that Malcolm _knows_. He knows. He knows everything.

Then Jon moves his hand away again, and the moment is over, and when his eyes fix on Malcolm's, Jon's face is so controlled, so carefully blank, it's as if there was never anything there at all.

"Take care of him," the captain says, and he turns to go.

"With my life," Malcolm tells him. And Jon nods as he's leaving, as if that's the only thing Malcolm could have said.

### 5\. And I Have Never In My Life Felt More Alone Than I Do Now

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed sits in the mess hall, at one forlorn table next to the large window that gives such a glorious view of the terrible, terrible stars.

He's completely still. His hands are wrapped around a mug of tea he hasn't touched, that's long since gone cool. He's exhausted, so tired he feels stunned. But he doesn't want to go to sleep, not yet. Right now the idea of his empty quarters is more than he can bear.

He didn't stay long in sick bay once the captain left. He didn't want to be there when trip woke. He didn't want to hear whatever it was that Trip would have said to him.

He knows it's cowardly—at the very least he should apologize for breaking Trip's arm.

_Tomorrow_ , he thinks, when Trip's back on duty. He'll make up some excuse to go to engineering and apologize to him then. It'll be easier when they're both working, safer with the impersonal machinery and the commander's team around them. They can still be civil, friendly, even, while they're working. He won't say anything he might regret that way. He won't hope Trip will say something Malcolm knows he'll never hear again.

"I love you, don't I?" Trip had asked him, when Trip couldn't remember who he was. _Not anymore_ , Malcolm thinks. _Not anymore_.

"Hello, sir."

Malcolm makes himself look up, forces himself to nod pleasantly, give Sergeant Kemper something approaching a smile. Joshua is carrying two mugs, and he wordlessly hands one to Malcolm. The warmth of the metal is welcome; it smells like black tea.

"Thank you," Malcolm says. He manages a smile again, even takes a sip because he knows he's hurt this man terribly and doesn't want to again. "I thought you MACOs had a get-together on Fridays?"

Joshua blinks, surprised. "You know about that?" He asks as he sits down.

"Yes." Malcolm nods. It's his business to know, but he doesn't say it.

"I kind of ended it early," Joshua says. He takes a sip of his drink—coffee, by the smell of it—then holds it between his two hands. "I'm worried about Hawkins," he says quietly. "He's not...he's not holding up well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Malcolm says. He remembers Nathan very well from the _Seleya_. He was impressed by the young man's competence, how he handled himself while they were under siege. "Do you want me to talk to Hayes about it?"

"No thank you, sir," Joshua says. "I appreciate it, but I should bring it up with the Major." He gives Malcolm an apologetic smile. "I think it'd be better coming from me."

Malcolm smirks mirthlessly, takes another sip. "Probably."

They're both quiet after that, for a little while. Joshua drinks his coffee; Malcolm sips tea he doesn't want, to be kind.

"I'm really glad Commander Tucker came through okay," Joshua says then.

Malcolm glances at him sharply, but Joshua is just looking at him, his expression guileless. _He doesn't know_ , Malcolm thinks, and it's true. There's no way Joshua could know what happened last night. Nobody knows except himself and the most senior officers.

"Yes," Malcolm says. "Me too." His voice is suddenly weak and he hates it, but he can only think of how Trip almost died—and how just last night Trip held him, as if Malcolm still meant something, was still important. As if Trip had room.

He drinks more tea so he doesn't have to say anything else, but when he puts his cup down, Joshua takes his wrist in one of his hands. The sergeant's fingers are very warm.

Malcolm swallows, looking down at that hand. "Joshua," he says. "I—"

"Please," Joshua says softly. His smile is as gentle as the curve of his fingers. "I know. It's all right."

"It's not all right," Malcolm says. "You deserve better than this. I can't give you anything." His voice is almost harsh, but he doesn't pull his hand away.

"I know," Joshua says. But he doesn't pull his hand away, either.

Joshua's hand is warm, and solid, and strong, and real. It's not what Malcolm wants, but he can't have what he wants anymore. And Joshua is right there, and he does want this, this touch. And it's such a little thing.

And it's something to ease the loneliness, if only for a little while.

"Thank you," Malcolm says. Because it's the one thing he can.

Then they both sit in silence, watching the streaking lines of stars.


End file.
